Moments
by butterflies-and-broken-dreams
Summary: 1978. War is raging and caught amidst in it are several young adults, forced to mature before their time. To make decisions. To choose between life and love. It'll leave some for dead, some shattered beyond repair, but remember: People are naturally good at betraying others. Trust nobody. Don't let them in. Never let them in.
1. Present

**Warnings: **swear words, teen pregnancy, implied rape, mild sexual language and violence, eating disorders.

* * *

**Summer, 1978**

* * *

**Emmeline**

_I, I was standing. You were there..._

_..._

Cigarette smoke nearly obscures his face from view; yet not enough so that she can't recognise those absurdly-high cheekbones and that windswept, terribly-attractive hair, the sort that screams familiarity.

He's so similar to Sirius it's actually slightly scary.

Of course, she doesn't know him, not particularly _well_, after all, she graduated the same year as his brother and Regulus is due to the year next.

_Fuck_, he looks good though.

The sort of handsome that causes her breath to hitch and altogether stop, because he had that bad-boy aura, the kind that makes her think he'd brilliant in bed (is that an inappropriate thought for a stranger?) but a truly _awful_ boyfriend.

Quite perfect for her, considering she's not looking for anything serious (if you don't mind the pun).

If Emmeline weren't his brothers flat-mate and she hadn't heard tales of his...dalliances from Sirius, she -

Well, she doesn't know quite _what_ she would do.

Is she meant to capture him now? Throw him into those muggle-handcuffs (_kinky_, some part of her brain remarks dryly) and bring him to the Ministry?

Not that they'd _do_ anything. Oh no, they're almost as evil as You-Know-Who himself, except the subtle kind, through petty corruption and small-scale racism.

Sirius wouldn't appreciate it. Her...whatever the standard method for a Death Eater on the street is. Hexing, perhaps? Ruining that practically-perfect face?

She could destroy him with a flick of her wand and he doesn't even know how lucky he is - because she's not going to, this once.

As a favour, to a friend and absolutely _nothing_ to do with aesthetics.

The raindrops cling to his face, seemingly-highlighting that stubble (_fuck_) and causing his hair - again, almost identical to his brother's - to glisten (_shit_, _shit_, _shit_) all while she's just...standing there, two metres from someone who is _supposed_ to be her enemy but looks really, really damned appealing.

Merlin, she spends _far_ too much time around Sirius.

* * *

**Moody**

_I am one of those melodramatic fools. Neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it..._

_..._

People are naturally good at betraying others.

That's why he never lets them in, you see, never allows them to get too _close_ - because you do and bam! They'll stab you in the back, send an unforgivable your way, kill you if you let them.

The Order team are fairly-trustworthy, they seem handy with their wands but he wouldn't be surprised if there was a plant in there, somewhere. He couldn't pick one out though, no, all his years of training and suspicion haven't quite reached that point.

If he could guess, he would say Lupin. All that self-loathing, combined with the werewolf temper...well, it doesn't make a pleasant combination. Meadowes too. Sarcastic, tortured, broken, they're the types that turn to the dark side.

They've both seen some shit in their lives and Alastor isn't sure if they can handle it.

No proof though - maybe he guessed wrong. Maybe it's one of the less obvious types, like Black (than again, once they defect, they're unlikely to go back) or Potter (he wouldn't count on it, the boy may be arrogant, but is also insanely loyal).

Dearborn, perhaps. Not that girlfriend of his though - she seems too cheerful to even be _in_ the Order, let alone to give up it's secrets.

Evans could be a risk - Muggleborns trying to gain protection from Dark Wizards are rare, but not altogether unlikely, while the Prewetts don't seem to be the sort, neither does Diggle. Podmore is young, inexperienced, which in reflection, could make him the perfect candidate.

McKinnon and Pettigrew. He would watch them as well. Some kind of drama with her and Black - and Pettigrew...well, that kid seems harmless, but that's what they all look like. So nobody suspects them. It's ingenious, really.

Fletcher would be the kind you'd instantly suspect - the dodgy, dirty-dealer who trades his alliances at the drop of a money bag, but if you trust your instincts, Moody has learned in his time, there's always a chance that you might be wrong.

There has to be someone.

There's always going to be a person to betray you.

* * *

**Sirius**

_If you're happy and you know it clap your hands..._

_..._

He's happy.

Not over-the-moon, leaping-for-joy, but _happy_. After all, it is a war and it would be completely, terribly selfish of him to entirely-content with his life, yet the very same for him not to be the slightest piece grateful.

Lily and James are all wrapped up in their little fairytale and that's _fine_. Because he's a lone wolf (he could make some kind of Moony-joke at that, if he had had more than two hours sleep the night previous) and he has his whole Emmeline-thing going on, so really, does he need his best friend at all?

By Emmeline-thing, he does not mean relationship at-fucking-all. No, they are very, very, _very_ much platonic, like the _opposite_ of two bunnies or some equally-horny creature.

He doesn't need his tiny heart broken again, not after Marlene.

Who he does _not_ want to think about, not now, not ever again because that part of his life is over. No more useless pretending and ignorance, because he used to be a _fool_. For that thing he thought was love, but was just a trap waiting to ensnare him like the animal he is.

It doesn't even matter that the rest of the Marauders are pretty-much over him, what with Prongs moving in with Evans and Moony and Wormtail and their co-shared apartment that just didn't have room for him.

So he had found someone as out-of-control and emotionally damaged as him and they had moved in together, like some sort of couple that did not fuck. Or kiss.

Except that one time when he was really, really drunk and she had tasted like chocolate biscuits. Which he had lied about remembering the very next day because he didn't - _doesn't_ need any more drama in his life.

Especially not from women. He's strictly given up on them being anything more than a quick shag, (is that misogynistic of him?) at least within the romance department.

Because friends is fine. Friends is good.

Friends is _happy_.

* * *

**Lily**

_It's a nice day for a white wedding. It's a nice day to start again. _

_..._

She's getting married.

Merlin, she's getting _married_.

Married. Lily likes the word. It's peculiar on her tongue, but she could get used to it in time.

Oh! _Lily Potter_.

God, she never thought she would change her name for anyone, but it sounds nicer like that, Potter. Not _Evans_. Pot-ter. Potter. She always liked his last name. Maybe that's why she used it so much.

No, she's fairly sure it's because he used to be an arrogant prat.

Not now though. Now he's -

Gushing isn't particularly her thing, so just fill that space with synonyms for 'wonderful.'

Is she too young? She's - fuck, how old is she? Nineteen? She can't even remember her own age, how is she supposed to be trusted to _marry_ someone? Let alone James Potter - the Unofficial King of Irresponsibility.

She loves him though. A hell of a lot. Probably too much to be considered healthy. That hair does terrible, _terrible_ things to her mind and soul.

Engaged. To be married. Wow.

Will people mind? _Them_? He's a pure-blood and she's...a Muggleborn, they're not exactly the typical couple and it's sure to stir things up. There she goes again. Worrying about what other people think. It's a bad habit of hers.

But what if she's putting him in danger? Isn't there some kind of pure-blood code: '_don't fuck a Mudblood_?' Merlin, even his parents don't know about them - 'they're the old-fashioned sort,' James tells her, 'they'll be shocked, but they'll come around eventually.'

They won't. Lily can tell. They'll hate her and all she stands for. Taking away the Potter fortune like that, probably just some nasty little gold-digger-Mudblood-filth trying to get our son killed.

That's what the rest of them think, anyway.

* * *

**Marlene**

_And she's lovin' him with that body, I just know it. And he's holding her in his arms, late late at night..._

_..._

They're engaged. The words hit her like a ton of rock - because _they. are. getting. married. _

As in, a wedding.

Evans in white, looking ever-so-radiant, with _Him_ meeting her at the end of the aisle with that stupid-fucking-adorable-smile and them kissing. Then again. And again. For eternity, because that's what marriage is, isn't it?

Marlene won't get an invite. Because they hate her - _everyone_ hates her for _daring_ to date James, to split up the soulmates, to keep Him apart from his _one true love. _

She uses that term in the condescending sense, because by now, she's figured it all out. Nobody gets a happy ending. Not even _them_, (the picture-perfect couple) because there's a fucking war out there and there's a ninety-nine percent chance that at least one of them is going to die.

At least people would care about that. About Evans and Potter, the heroic, star-crossed couple, who never put a foot wrong in their whole lives.

All while Marlene is the worst person anyone can ever be.

For not wanting to fuck Sirius. For not wanting James to fuck Evans. For being a ditzy-uptight _bitch_, who should probably just go and kill herself, since nobody wants her around anyway.

Unless she's doing work for the Order - hey, even a skanky-hideous-whore is good for something, right?

Yeah, because otherwise, she might as well crawl into a hole and never come out.

It's not like anyone would notice she was gone.

* * *

**Benjy**

_All the lonely people. Where do they all belong?_

_..._

He doesn't want to go back to school.

Benjy isn't entirely sure why he's thinking about Hogwarts, considering there's still around twenty-three days of holidays left - but it's there. In his mind. Like the plague, never truly going away.

Or a ghost. He's never really been good at similes.

He's never really been good at _anything_.

At home, things are okay. Parents fighting, but then, that's the usual. At home, he's Benjy Fenwick, an actual person with feelings, a real, existential human-being, rather than the chubby (except he's lost weight now, he really has) gay Huffflepuff nerd he's labelled as at school.

Really, does it matter that he likes boys? Short answer: yes. It does, apparently. A lot. Almost as much as it matters that he's a half-blood.

It doesn't matter. He's joining the Order as soon as he's out of that hellhole. Proving it to them once and for all. That he isn't useless. That he _knows_ how to handle a wand, despite having a stutter and not being able to run for shit.

God, that's all he's ever wanted. To be taken seriously. But nobody could ever do that, could they? Be nice to the little freak in the corner. Treat him like he deserves. You know, actual _moral_ stuff.

For a minute, he thinks of getting up and going to the kitchen to get some banana bread, only to remember his diet and sink back down. He can't eat. He'll get fat again. Fat and ugly and he'll die alone.

Not that he wasn't going to anyway.

He's not even going to touch that banana bread, because that's how it starts. Licking one crumb off his finger, then binging on the entire thing.

Shoving a finger down his throat in the bathroom a few minutes later.

Crying himself to sleep. Telling his parents that he's...'yeah, sure, great,' when it feels like he's dying on the inside. No. He won't let that happen.

Not for the second time.

* * *

**Mary**

_Tragedy! When the feelings gone and you can't go on..._

_..._

That feeling inside of her...

Merlin knows it could have been worse. Mary's a Mudblood - she could have been on the floor in a pool of blood, or tortured to insanity, or some other cruel, unjustifiable fate that thousands before her had been left to.

Maybe it wasn't even because of her blood. It's not exactly an aspect of herself she likes to share. Maybe some sick fuck just decided to do _that_ because he could.

Is there some kind of _sign_ hanging around her neck? Telling people that she's vulnerable, that they should feel free to take advantage of her?

There was the whole thing in her fourth year. With Mulciber. But she doesn't like to think about that - especially not _now_.

When she's picking up her knickers off the floor - knowing exactly _what_ happened, but not how, or who.

Imperio, probably. She's heard tales of it before - of lost and lonely women who ended up exactly how she did - alone and confused the very next day, with bruises on their thighs and an low, dull ache between their legs.

It's not a tragedy, Mary tells herself; she's not an exception. Just one of the masses that didn't think to bring someone when they went out at night. Not a martyr - just a fool.

She manages to choke back the bile rising in her throat.

It's not like she has anybody to tell. Doreen moved to Australia, for protection from the war. No home to go to - at least, not one where she can pay the rent.

And the teardrop rolling onto her tongue tastes like salt as she slams the door behind her.

* * *

**Remus**

_'Cause everybody cries. And everybody hurts, sometimes..._

_..._

Love isn't something he thinks about a lot. Love isn't something he particularly _likes_ to think about. There's a saying (well, there _probably_ is, there are a billion and one quotes about the notion) that everyone has a person for them - even if they haven't found them yet.

He doesn't think that's true. Who would _willingly_ settle down with a werewolf? Oh, that would be his worst nightmare: to force someone into dating him. He's read Beauty and the Beast - and life doesn't work like that.

If he kidnapped a girl, Remus wouldn't want her to gradually fall for him. He'd need her to get the hell out of there, before he broke her heart, or hurt her, or some other terrible thing his..._condition_ forces him to do.

Hurting another human being (except he's not one, not really) - fuck, he'd kill himself before he'd let that happen.

He sighs and picks up his quill, determined to start work on the article before the afternoon strikes.

It's the only job he could find, as a writer for a low-key girly magazine - _Teen Witch_ - who had originally decided not to hire him after finding out about exactly _what_ he got up to once a month.

James had helped him. Mr. Potter had connections, one of them being with the editor-in-chief. Meaning Remus had received a reluctant job offer at 46 galleons a week.

_Ten ways to charm a wizard_ - probably the most cheesy thing he's ever heard, but hey, it keeps him off the streets. As does Peter's job - even if Remus isn't exactly sure what that _is_. Some office job somewhere, making at least twice what he earns.

_Number 1. Make conversation!_

Yeah, Remus snorts to himself, because the average man is going to think with his brain not his dick.

God he hates his work.

* * *

**Narcissa**

_Oh no, not I. I will survive..._

_..._

Her cousin is playing a very dangerous game. Not Regulus - because he's a coward (just like her in fact) and has probably never done anything remotely out of the ordinary for a Black in his life, but the _other_ one.

His name, like the Dark Lord's, goes unspoken in their household, as well as the original Black manor - because he's unanimously agreed to never have existed in the first place.

Gryffindor wasn't his mistake. Unheard of, yet not as bad as a Black in say, Hufflepuff. They would have struck him off the tree there and then if _that_ had happened.

No, they let him have his way, gave him a billion and one second chances, (he always was Walburga's favourite - though she would never admit the sort) even after all those posters of the scantily-clad muggle girls that made Narcissa sick to the stomach.

Running away was the worst of it. Abandoning them had been the final straw, after the Dreadful Row at the dinner table, which they nearly-never spoke of.

Narcissa had learned to keep her mouth shut about _that_, after bringing it up in front of Aunt Walburga. Mother had left a nasty-red hand mark upon her cheek that night.

Joining the Order though...that was something else. Next thing, he'd be fucking a Mudblood just like _Her_ - they'll both get themselves killed in the end.

Not Narcissa. That's her one goal through all of this: stay alive. Maybe keep her husband around too, because Lucius is starting to grow on her, even if he can be awfully annoying at times.

The Dark Lord will keep her safe. He may not have a shred of loyalty in his body, but he recognises a good fighter when he sees one, a nice little pawn to add to his game of chess with Dumbledore.

They're strong, the Death Eaters. Powerful, too. Indestructible. And really, that's all she needs to stay around.

* * *

**Dorcas**

_Don't touch me please, I cannot stand the way you tease..._

_..._

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

Oh, she's going to _murder_ Dearborn.

It had been alright. They had been mates - not on the _best_ terms, but still relatively close. Hugging close. High-fiving close. Definitely-not-anything-more close.

Except _he_ had to ruin in with that charismatic smile and little head-duck that fucked with her mind. With his so-bad-they're-good jokes and overprotectiveness every time they went on a mission together.

Hours and hours alone. Together. Ignoring the fact that they were hunting potential Death Eaters. Because Dumbledore - god, even Dumbledore played the matchmaker - thought that they were a great 'partnership.' In the crime-fighting sense.

Not the 'let's get married and have a billion and one screaming crying babies' kind. Which is how she wants it to stay.

Well, _wanted_ it to stay.

He's got a girlfriend.

Jones. Skinny. Blonde. Perky. Pretty much everything Dorcas hates in the world.

Hestia doesn't know.

About that night, after a bust, when they had gone to some muggle nightclub and had way too much of a thing called vodka, which had ended up with them avoiding each other in the hallways and pretending that _it_ had never happened.

Sex. Awkward and kind-of strange, but still most definitely sex. Which he had chosen to forget, either that or somebody had cast a quick obliviate in his direction immediately afterwards. She's fairly sure it's the former.

Then block her out from his life, because Dorcas simply _can't_ ruin his flawless relationship, can she? Break up the _lovebirds_? No, that would make her a real-fucking-bitch, for letting a completely-innocent man sleep with her, because it _totally_ wasn't his fault in any way.

Being bitter, Dorcas knows, is not going to get her anywhere. Neither is jealousy.

Caradoc (it's a stupid name anyway, she sniffs) has made his choice and she's just going to have to deal with it.

But those two glowing pink lines sitting firmly in her hand - well, they're probably going to be a hell of a lot harder not to notice.

* * *

**Peter**

_Rising up, back on the street. Did my time, took my chances..._

_..._

Peter likes to listen. Talking is overrated - so terribly self-involved that it'll never get you anywhere at all, but hearing...hearing is where you start to _learn_ things.

His boss is fucking the woman down the hallway. The man in the cubicle next to him - he's a closet gay. They're firing Mitchell for walking in on something he wasn't supposed to. Karen - the hot blonde who works at reception - is pregnant with Carlos' (a clearly not-so-happily married client) baby.

It's like gossip, but he doesn't spread it around. Just keeps it to himself. Stores it all up. Never forgets - sometimes he writes a particularly juicy piece down.

Little tidbits of conversation start to add up and up and up - and soon enough, he knows everybody's secrets. The parts of themselves they'd like to stay hidden. How those who are generally considered perfect have their own insecurities and bad habits, flaws that kind of make him feel good about _himself_.

Analytical, shrewd...that's how he likes to look at himself. One of those quiet masterminds, the puppeteer, the person who pulls the strings. Not that he'd ever use any of his knowledge against people.

Probably.

They interest him, _people_, with their problems and petty differences, how easily manipulated they are. How they lie, over and over and over again, how they never stop to think of anyone else, just themselves.

Maybe not the Marauders. No, the Marauders are nice to him - they can be trusted, as can Lily, she was always friendly to him at Hogwarts. Not like the others.

He appears vulnerable, weak, that's why they pick _him_. That's why the Marauders are his only friends. That's why whenever they ran into Slytherins, he was picked to be hexed first.

But Peter isn't. Don't judge a book by it's cover - because he sure as hell isn't easily broken.

* * *

**Edgar**

_Taking steps is easy. Standing still is hard..._

_..._

"I want to join the Order."

It's spontaneous, because really, he hadn't _planned_ on telling Emily, just signing up and going missing for nights on end without her realising.

She rolls onto her side tiredly, bright-blue eyes doing _That Thing_ - where she manages to look condescending patronising and concerned for his well-being at the same time.

"And you're telling me this _now_?"

He's staying home, that day, from work - because she's due to give birth in like a week and Emily would bury him alive if he weren't there for the birth of their second child. Or roast him on a spit. Either way works.

"When else could I tell you?"

"Oh, I don't know, _after_ the baby is born?"

Sarcasm, he thinks to himself, really is her most prominent trait. She would be scary - if he hadn't seen her scream and leap up into the air when she found a spider in the bathtub.

"I want to join the order," Edgar repeats, feeling slightly silly. "I want to feel like I'm doing _something_ for the world."

"Is bringing in new life not good enough for you?" It's less sardonic this time around more pleading. "You'll get yourself killed."

"For the greater good."

"Wasn't that Grindelwald's motto?"

Damn her impeccable History of Magic knowledge.

"I don't want to hurt you - "

"Then don't." Emily interrupts. "Don't join."

* * *

**Frank**

_Stop and stare. I think I'm moving but I go nowhere..._

_..._

His father, still before him. Listless eyes blankly staring somewhere off into the distance. Not Death Eaters, as they had feared, but a plain muggle death. A heart attack. From the stress, they said. With the war and all that nonsense.

That's when he decides.

Frank hasn't always been a pessimist - in fact, he started off his life as an eager, willing child, but he's seen things that would make any man a cynic. All the reports in the paper - even his heritage won't stop him from becoming a victim, being in the Order makes sure of that.

He knows he probably won't make thirty. Something in his gut tells him that. Divination was Alice' subject, but even a village idiot could see that the chances of surviving in a time like theirs is slim.

A baby. That's what he wants.

Maybe it isn't right to bring a child into their world - not when it's like this, but there are worse things a man can do, life has taught him that at least.

With Alice, obviously, if she agrees to it, a boy or girl of her dark hair and his eyes, a beautiful creature they can both call their own.

He won't tell her now. They're in mourning - she liked his father, he knows. Frank throws his arm around her waist and plants a small kiss to her forehead, both watching as the casket is lowered into the ground.

She smells as she always does: faintly of blueberries and lemon-shampo. Like the Amortentia - sixth year, where he had realised he was in love with her and done almost everything to get her to notice him.

Maybe it's fate, or destiny, because by that point he had not spoken to her enough to know that he was infatuated, but the smell, the _smell_ had convinced him.

And he had asked her to dance at Slughorn's Christmas Party. Where he had confessed he wanted to kiss her and after several agonising moments, she had let him.

Frank could smile at the memory, if it weren't such a sad occasion.

He lets his arm drop to her side, his fingers curling around hers and suppresses a tear as his dad disappears forever.

* * *

**Fabian**

_Too late to beg you or cancel it. Though I know it must be killing time... _

_..._

They get assigned to a muggle town. That's the drill. Keep the places of high-attack risk safe from harm, even if it means getting split up from Gideon to do it.

Eastlake (he's not entirely sure why they call it that, there isn't a lake remotely near the place) is a relatively harmless town in Central London, filled with generally good-hearted, albeit slightly lower-class people.

He's there because of a recent murder - a fairly-young-ish muggle couple, tortured and attacked by wizards, then left outside as an 'example.'

Why they were a target, he isn't sure. As disgusting as it may seem, it was probably just an assertion of wizard dominance, or because they _could_. Bellatrix Lestrange.

She was the one who did it, he knows it. Firsthand, how sadistic that monster gets, how much pain she causes.

Likes to play with her victims too. Play with them like they're mice and she's the cat chasing them, toying with her food before she rips their throats out. Except that's too muggle for her. No, she uses the killing curse. Or something more interesting, if she can, like Sectumsempra, because that's how twisted she really is.

They need to catch her.

And kill her, if _he_ gets his hands on her.

There have been sightings of her, nearby. Fuck, Fabian hopes they're true. He wants to watch the light leave her eyes himself. Is that a bad thought to think? Probably.

The only thing better than that bitch dead is him being the one to do it.

* * *

**Regulus**

_Two world colliding. And they could never tear us apart..._

_..._

There's a girl watching him.

Witch, too, judging from the ripple in his pocket that Regulus has learned to notice by now.

One of Dumbledore's? Maybe. Does he care? No. Let her catch him. He's not a proper Death Eater anyway, not yet. The Ministry wouldn't do anything.

He continues to ignore her. Staring isn't exactly uncommon when it comes to him. The noble Black heir! Last man left, apart from brother dearest and he doesn't really count anymore, does he? Oh, what an _honour_ to be in such a truly great household, filled with incestuous produce and raging psychopaths!

Not that he's complaining, of course. They keep a roof over his head and provide a safety net from the Dark Lord. He could be a Mudblood; (which he presumes of this girl, she doesn't appear particularly _royal_) a walking target for people like his family.

"Morning." His voice comes out husky from the smoke, as well as it being the first he's spoke that day, with the taste of toast and jam on his tongue, but the mocking element of his tone remains. "Anything particular you'd like to know?"

A flush appears on her cheeks, bright and pink as she takes a step back from him, to Regulus' relief. "Waiting for the Knight Bus," she mumbles, barely coherent.

He pauses to catch his breath. "Great for you."

"You're Regulus, aren't you?"

He stills. "None of your concern," he says, but allows his lower lip to curl. "A friend of my brother's, I presume?"

The blush darkening a shade or two is a pretty big hint that he's right.

"See," she draws out the word, long, nice and slow. "You gave the game away. If you hadn't mentioned Sirius, I might have believed you."

"Might you?" He raises an eyebrow. "You seemed rather convinced I was."

"I could have been mistaken."

"Yet you weren't." Regulus lets the cigarette drop from his fingers at last. "May I ask how you have the unpleasure of knowing him?"

"Flat-mate."

"By which, I'm sure you mean latest shagging-partner." There is no doubt of his brother's escapades with the women.

"Flat-mate," the girl repeats. "Nothing more."

He eyes her with curiosity. "You have strong resolve..."

"Emmeline." She sticks her hand for him to shake, which he pretends not to notice. "Emmeline Vance."

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, Never Tear Us Apart (INXS) Basket Case (Green Day) If You're Happy and You Know It (I...don't know) Jessie's Girl (Rick Springfield) Everybody Hurts (R.E.M) Tainted Love (Soft Cell) I Will Survive (Gloria Gaynor) Eye of The Tiger (Survivor) You've Got Time (Regina Spektor) Killing Moon (Echo and the Bunnymen) Tragedy (Steps) or Stop and Stare (OneRepublic)

A/N: So? Tell me what you thought! This is going to be a multi-chapter, from the perspectives of most of the characters alive at the time, but centring around the ones already mention in this chapter.

Oh, also the timeline is kind of messed-up. For the purposes of this story, Lily, James, Sirius, Marlene, Emmeline, Remus and Peter graduated in 1977, not 1978.

Any kind of feedback is welcome!


	2. Flashbacks

**Chapter two: Flashbacks**

Warnings: well, I don't want to ruin it for you...but there's a creepy guy, an...unconventional relationship and a pretty-tragic event. Swear words, sexual language and cigarettes (though I doubt that's of major importance).

* * *

**Dorcas**

_Each of us is deeply lonely - Mortimer Adler_

_..._

October, 1974 - Dorcas' Seventh Year.

How the hell she got to be Head Girl, Dorcas will never know. Especially considering the three other candidates (if one to assume that only Prefects were to receive it - it was an unofficial rule that they were) who are so very _clearly_ more adept for the job than she certainly is, though that's not a particularly hard thing to achieve.

All of them being so unutterably perfect that it kind-of-maybe makes Dorcas want to scream.

She's fairly sure the Head Boy - Nathan Warner - would prefer it as well, his girlfriend Katie Bradshaw is the Gryffindor Prefect and too-popular for words, despite being a heinous bitch.

Nathan himself is reserved. Emotionally distant, you might say. Which should be fine, because Dorcas is exactly the same, but isn't, because he's only like that around _her_.

So she makes an effort. Trying - at least, socially - isn't a particular hobby of hers, but Dorcas figures that if she has to spend a year with this boy, it would help if he would say two words to her, right?

It's late afternoon in October, well after lessons have finished, in the Head Boy and Girl Common Room (honestly, why do they have to share?) while he's attempting to study that she does it.

"So, um, how was your day?"

He raises his head, which had been bent, neck crooked, over his Charms textbook, to meet her gaze, managing to both roll his eyes and lift a questioning eyebrow at once. "Fine."

Monosyllabic. That's...a start.

"Good, good." Wow. She's horrible at this whole _people_ thing. Is that a flush coming on? "Uh, do you have the Cistem Aperio charm figured out yet? Because I'm a little stuck. And, you know...Professor Hamlin said it would be on the test."

"You ramble a lot." He returns to his work.

"Are you going to help me?"

"Do you feel _entitled_ to my help?" _What_? What kind of a question is that?

"I'm...not sure."

"Make up your mind." God, he isn't exactly co-operative, is he? Seriously, for once in her life, she actually _doesn't_ act all aloof and standoffish and _this_ is the result. "I'm not your slave."

"I never said you _were_." Dorcas can feel her temper rising as she stands up. "I just asked for some help with a fucking spell and you couldn't get off your lazy arse to do that."

He looks her up and down with distaste. "Merlin. I can see why nobody likes you."

The words hit her like a jolt of electricity - because said aloud, they seem so _real_. She'd always known the fact (and had admitted to herself long ago that it was not, in fact, just paranoia) yet to actually hear it...

It hurts.

Like, a lot. Dorcas is surprised at how much. She could crumple and break and collapse into tears by the shock of it, but she doesn't. Lets her lower lip tremble for a second, before regaining her cold composure and leaving. Punctuated with a 'fuck you' and a middle finger of course.

Nobody likes her. What's the problem with that? The majority sucks, anyway. She doesn't even want them to love her. Throw themselves at her feet. That would remove her integrity and toss it into the rubbish.

But maybe she wants a person to talk to as well.

* * *

**Snape**

_Jealousy is invariably a symptom of neurotic insecurity - Robert A. Heinlein_

_... _

November, 1976 - Snape's Seventh Year

A knock.

Another knock.

A third knock. Fuck, how long does it take for her to get to the door? How big _is_ the Head's Dormitory? Or, the place he doesn't like to think about, because Potter and Lily in the same living space makes his skin crawl.

The very thought of them together -

Except they are. According to the rumours, at least. Together for a week. How fucking _adorable_.

Meanwhile, the door swings open and he is greeted by the sight of Lily Evans in a short nightdress, (if he didn't have things to say, he would...appreciate it) bed-head still apparent.

"What?" It's rude, terse and to the point. No less than he deserves, after -

"I came to say sorry."

"I am having the _weirdest_ sense of Deja Vu right now," she says, rolling those pretty green eyes of hers. "It's no use."

"You don't forgive me?"

"You hexed my boyfriend - " a small stab of pain goes to his heart at that word. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. So the rumours are true after all. Lily Evans has finally lost all sense of judgement and started to date that _arsehole_. "And I'll never forgive you, not for fifth year."

"Come back to bed Lily." Severus freezes at the slow, unmistakable drawl of Potter, particularly at the words being spoken. Bed. As in, shagging. As in, he touched her. That _bastard_ with his hands all over her like the arrogant little piece of shit he is -

"In a week?" He allows his lower lip to curl into a sneer. "Never thought you were easy, Evans, but - "

She looks as though she's on the verge of slapping him, when a very-much-shirtless (no, he didn't need his breakfast that morning) James Potter arrives at the door, disgust evident on his face when he realises who it is. "Oh. It's you."

"We weren't - " Lily struggles for the words. "I had a nightmare."

Potter puffs out his chest at this, as though he is some _shining-white-knight_, her little hero, capable of protecting her.

"Requiring you to run into his," he jerks a thumb at the boy in front of him. "arms?"

"Is it really any of your business where Lily sleeps?" James cuts in coolly. "As I remember, you stopped being her friend when you called her _that_ word in fifth year."

"You can both deal with this." Lily says, throwing her ex-best friend an almost disgusted look. "I'm going to go get dressed."

"I don't recall _you_ playing a part in this. Unless you'd like me to curse you again?" The threat seems to have it's desired effect - to anger him, but is pulled back by Lily before he can do any real harm to Snape.

"I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? Getting some kind of sick rush out of hurting people?" He checks behind him to make sure Lily isn't listening. "It doesn't impress her, you know."

Oh, Severus is _so_ prepared to blast him into tiny little pieces. "You think I _want_ to impress her? I want your sloppy seconds, is that it?"

Which is about when Potter pulls out his wand, looking angry enough to kill him - not that Snape would care at this point.

Not that anybody else would care, either.

"Hex me, why don't you? Don't even wait for me, we all know how you like an unfair fight."

For a second it looks as if he's actually about to, before his arm is tugged away by Lily.

"Get out," she breathes in Severus' direction. "Get out and don't come back."

* * *

**Mary**

_"The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we really are, a subtle kind of murder." - Jim Morrison_

_..._

August, 1973, the summer before Mary's Third Year.

Her family is..._different_.

Ayaka Macdonald is originally from Osaka, Japan and barely speaks a word of English, except when forced to by her husband. Personally, Mary doesn't see the appeal for both of them - her father is a loutish, Scottish brute and her mother - while beautiful - probably couldn't understand that if you told her.

Oh, she does speak English, it's just incredibly broken. So much so that only Mary can manage to decipher what she's saying half the time.

Not a particularly _fun_ job.

At at least her mother is home half the time. Instead of working, like her father. Whoch Mary knows isn't his fault - he needs to pay the bills, but she still isn't entirely sure if he remembers her name.

Except as the 'freak.'

Demon-child, that's what her mother called her when they found _out_. The babbled on for several minutes about shape-shifting foxes and owl familiars, a stream of both Japanese and English all at once.

At Hogwarts, it's almost as popular as the 'Mudblood' jokes. The inevitable question, either asked by someone generally ignorant, or just trying to wind her up. "If you're Half-Asian, why are you called _Mary Macdonald_?"

She's the confused one, you see. The worst of both worlds, no true identity. Scottish - but Japanese. Muggle - but a witch.

"Well, we have one normal child."

Or, her father's comment on the matter.

...

What hurts is that, apparently, they didn't.

The police find a body that summer. Erica Macdonald, 17 years old, who chose to _jump_. To give up her perfect results, handsome boyfriend, drop-dead gorgeous (she managed to pull off Japanese-Scottish, which her sister sure as hell can't do) looks and end her life.

When she first hears, Mary wonders if it's her fault. For being magical, for ruining the family with her weird 'voodoo' (a term her father had used to describe it) powers. Erica had never chosen to comment on the matter, but she probably hated it. They all did.

Why else would somebody like her do _that_? Decide to -

Fuck. Oh God, _fuck_.

It's settling in now.

Now Erica is dead. D-E-A-D. All bloody and mangled and _dead_.

Her parents cry. It's ironic, really, that the one time they agree is in the wake of tragedy. Mary doesn't. Shock, probably. Is that terrible of her?

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

They didn't talk much. How could they, with her being away for Hogwarts and her sister holed up in her room, studying to maintain those brilliant grades? Never sat down around a table together. Never gossiped about boys - and how fucking _cute_ that Ravenclaw in Mary's year is. Didn't giggle over Sarah-from-down-the-road's haircut, or discuss the latest Doctor Who episode.

Serious, but happy. That was her sister. Or so they all thought. Before...

She knows it shouldn't - but, it really gets Mary thinking.

If Erica - flawless, amazingly-intelligent Erica - didn't want to live in their world, then why should _she_?

* * *

**Fabian**

_"Let us always meet each other with a smile, for a smile is the beginning of love." - Mother Teresa_

...

1967 - Aged 19

His brother is away. The wedding - of Gideon and Sheila (a perfectly-respectable Pureblood witch) was a few days ago, meaning that the newly-wed couple are allowed to escape to their Honeymoon, leaving him alone in the house.

Not that he won't be alone afterwards, seeing as when they return, they will buy a gorgeous little cottage in the country and abandon him. That, he knows.

Dorkeep is a dull town, certainly not one he would expect to live in for the rest of his life, but maybe a place he would return to once old and grey, with grandchildren and great-grandchildren, to spend the rest of his days in peace and quiet.

The Wizarding population is small, (though, to be fair, it is a tiny town) about ten, he thinks, not including himself, Gideon and Sheila.

So he interacts with the muggles: talks to the old man throwing bread at the park; the woman at the local bank; the man at the Grocers.

But the Bakery is his favourite place to go. The smell of fresh bread always seems to tempt him, the newly–baked cakes with their chocolate icing makes his mouth _drool_. Fortunately, he isn't an idiot, with enough Muggle money to buy these goods and take them home to feast upon while listening to the Wizarding Wireless.

It's a quiet shop, only filled with the small, slow chatterings of the elderly and the occasional trill of the cash register. Dimly-lit, but cosy. Comfortable, even. A little cramped, yet he doesn't mind, not one bit.

What he _particularly_ likes is the girl that works there.

Patricia, her name is, a muggle (not that it matters, of course) who does her hair like someone name 'Audrey Hepburn' - very famous in their world, apparently - and occasionally interacts with him when he visits.

He learns that she wants to be an actress, like her idol, that her favourite colour is pink and oh, aren't The Kinks _wonderful_?

Fabian isn't really sure, but he nods his head yes and tells her that they're his favourite. Favourite _what_, he'll never know.

She smiles at him when he enters the shop and lets him have a 'friends' discount on cherry pie, but they haven't spoken outside that environment and he isn't very keen to try and ask her. Because she'll say no. Break his heart. Shatter his insides.

All with that pretty little beam of hers.

One day, he decides he'll do it. The next he's standing there, about to actually, finally make it - when all of a sudden he becomes crippled with fear and changes the topic to the weather, cursing himself as she wraps up his cheese and onion pasty.

Isn't he supposed to be a Gryffindor? Brave, bold, unstoppable? His brother did it, years ago with Sheila, so why can't he? He's nineteen, fairly attractive, quite-intelligent with absolutely nothing to lose - yet he can't even pluck up the courage to spit out...six words.

Twenty-three letters that elude him every time he begins to speak. Because - will they work out? Is she too good for him? Does she have a boyfriend? What if she humiliates him?

W-I-L-L-Y-O-U-G-O-O-U-T-W-I-T-H-M-E?

* * *

**Edgar**

_"If you find it in your heart to care for somebody else, then you will have succeeded." - Maya Angelou._

_..._

October, 1969 - Edgar's sixth year.

"You shouldn't smoke. It's bad for your lungs."

He hazards a glance upwards, to find an unfamiliar pair of large, blue eyes blinking down at you, the girl's pink lips pouted into a frown.

"Do I care?"

The answer: no, he doesn't. The war will kill all of them anyway, so why waste his time?

"You should."

And that's how they meet.

_..._

_..._

_..._

Her name is Emily - Hufflepuff, a year older and way, _way_ out of his league. According to Kyle Davis at least.

She has a boyfriend, - Gryffindor, her year - is a Prefect (explains the whole no-smoking thing) and is the second-smartest witch her age, accomplishing about a gazillion (yeah, he doesn't know the exact number) Outstandings in her OWLS.

Set on course to do even better in her NEWTS, apparently. Is there a number higher than a gazillion?

He isn't sure.

And him? Well, he's just little-old Edgar Bones, who pretty much _failed_ his OWLS, except for the Defence Against The Dark Arts part, (it's so typically Gryffindor, it's almost cliche, he thinks bitterly) and...yeah, that's it.

There is no _defining_ part of his character - he seems to change every day, (could be multiple personality disorder) he's not the hero, or the lovably-roguish villain, the nerd or the jock, the punk-misfit or the goody-two-shoes, he's just...him.

Which is all he'll ever be.

_..._

_..._

_..._

"I heard about your parents." He's out on the astronomy tower yet again - lighting up a cigarette as you speak - except this time around, she's not reprimanding him. "I'm sorry."

He's not entirely sure why he says it - but he does

"No, you aren't." Emily takes a long swig from her bottle of firewhisky. "You don't care, remember?"

"I think that's your problem," Edgar tells her, eying her drunken nature with a mixture of distaste and concern. "You care too _much_."

She's trying to fight back tears now, her voice coming out in a bitter croak. "I apologise for my parent's _death_."

"I didn't - "

"No. Shut the fuck up, Bones, because we've spoken what, once? And yet you still think you have the right to _judge_ me."

Like always - he has no idea how to reply.

_..._

_..._

_..._

"I had a brother." It's the night afterwards, same place, even same-fucking-time, (or thereabouts) except she's sober - and the cigarettes are tucked safely away in his pocket. "Before."

"You have two sisters." Emily points out coolly and he sucks in a deep breath and continues his story.

"Yeah, yeah, I do. But I _had_ a brother."

"He was..." Edgar stops and count on his fingers. "Four years older than you. You know him?"

She shakes her head, letting a few strands of that golden-butterscotch-blonde hair fall directly into her eyes.

"He died last year." Emily freezes and he waves his hand to let her know that it's okay - he doesn't _mind_ (because he never does). "In the war. And now...I feel like nothing I do is going to compare with my perfect, heroic older brother - Timothy - who was killed like a real man. Fighting."

All she does is take his hand and squeeze it softly - both knowing it's not enough, but somehow, strangely, it's a comfort.

* * *

**Mulciber**

"_Jealousy is just love and hate at the same time_." - _Drake_

_..._

1975 - Mulciber's Fifth Year

He's watching her again. Kellen would fuck her, if she weren't a Mudblood. In a heartbeat. Merlin, he'd _love_ that. Getting between those two legs - it's not like he hasn't thought of it often enough.

Rumours are, she's easy.

But he doesn't believe them. She seems too innocent to be a whore. Such a pure, virginal Fourth Year - Mary Macdonald. Kellen could admire _her_ arse all day long, yet time and other menial tasks await him.

Fuck, why are all the hot ones filth? Lily Evans, too. He has to admit - he can see the attraction there. Good-girls are always particularly _nice_ shags.

He knows he's attractive. He has money. Oh, how women _love_ money. Sure, he'll be engaged in a few years time, to some fugly-bitch but now...why not mess around a little?

Not with the both of them, though. His reputation is too prestigious to wasted on a couple of slutty bitches who would jump into bed with him at the drop of a Knut.

It would be fun to tease her though - just a little...

* * *

**James**

_"Trying to make someone fall in love with you is about as pointless as trying to control who you fall for." - James Earl Jones_

_..._

September, 1977 - Seventh Year

He nearly falls out of the bed in shock.

"_Fuck_, Lily," James exclaims, attempting to both flatten his hair and stand up at the same time. "I mean Evans. I mean - er..."

"We need to go over Patrol Partners."

"Now?" He rubs his eyes blearily for emphasis. "It's like three in the morning."

"It's seven, actually."

"Even worse," he declares, knowing that does not make sense in the slightest. "It's a Saturday. I had planned to sleep in until four in the afternoon."

"What about Quidditch practise?"

"Quidditch _tryouts_, Li - Evans," he says, sending her _that_ look. The kind of look boys get when they're talking about important 'manly' stuff. Even if they're choosing to ignore the fact that Quidditch is a mixed gender game and last year, half the team were female. "Are next week."

"What a load of tosh." Lily mutters under her breath.

Merlin, if he didn't (used to) fancy her, he doesn't know _what_ he would be doing right now. "So, er, Partners?"

Her face immediately brightens as she produces a list from her pocket, all scribbled over with names and dashes. "So I was thinking we should combine the houses? Create some interhouse unity?"

"The Slytherins won't go for that. Being the wankers they are."

If looks could kill, he'd be six-feet-under.

"_That_ is exactly what I'm talking about. Stereotypes. Stereotypes that promote competitiveness and mean spirit - "

"Evans," he interrupts. "No offence, but _why_ are you trying to help out a group of people who all want to kill you?"

"Because," she takes a seat on the edge of his bed, "they can't be all bad."

Oh. Now he understands. Sniv - Snape. Awkward conversation, so he changes the subject. "So, um, what are the suggestions?"

"McKinnon - "

"Marlene isn't a Prefect." James adopts a confused face, to which she rolls her eyes and sighs.

"Christ, James. Didn't you know that your _girlfriend_ has a sister?"

There are a million and one things he doesn't know about Marlene, but he has a feeling that she probably told him about her somewhere along the line.

"Anyway, _Rebecca_ - " she purses her lips, which informs him that Rebecca, is, in fact, the aforementioned sister. "Is going to be partnered with Crabbe - "

"They won't get on." He grabs the parchment from her and scratches it out with Lily's quill (so eagerly grabbed from her hands). "He's a right perv, he'll creep her out no end."

She raises an eyebrow but continues. "Fawcett has specifically asked not to be put with Roberts - "

"They used to date," he tells her. "She shagged his best friend."

"How the fuck do you know _that_?" Evans asks, with what appears to be genuine amazement. "They're bloody Fifth Years."

"Doesn't mean they aren't _people_."

Actually, he noticed them on the Map, but he isn't about to inform her of it.

"Listen, darling - " he grins at the flash of fury that sprints through her expression. "All I want to know is who _I_ am patrolling with. Merlin, and don't tell me it's that Abercrombie from Slytherin. She's a right - "

"Me." She tucks a strand of that long, dark-red hair behind her ears and he follows the movement with his gaze, as though he were some kind of love-sick puppy. Except he's not, because he has a girlfriend. "I thought that maybe we could go together. Because we're Heads. Even though you're really annoying and I probably couldn't put up with you for the whole two hours."

"I'm not sure whether that was a compliment or an insult."

Conpliment, definitely, his mind tells him.

He's always been an optimist.

* * *

**Aurora Sinistra**

_"Love begins with an image, lust with a sensation." - Mason Cooley_.

...

March, 1975 - aged twenty-one.

It's wrong. Not in the so-terrible-it-actually-can't-be-terrible way, but actually, seriously _fucked-up_.

Merlin, she's ruined her first year as a Professor already.

It had begun several weeks ago, with one truly awful thought.

There's a boy (there always is, isn't there?) in her class. A loud obnoxious rebel, despite being Head. That word. It sparks off so many inappropriate connotations in her mind, that she, as a teacher - should-absolutely-fucking-_not_ be thinking.

How Nathan Warner ever got to achieve that position, she will never figure out. At least Dorcas Meadowes (who could only be described as a raging mess of sarcasm and insecurity) demonstrates some understanding of the rules.

Unlike him, who is constantly landing detention. With her. All alone in a tiny classroom. Barely metres away.

Fuck.

He has a girlfriend, she learns, from staffroom gossip. She isn't technically supposed to speak ill of her students, but...Katie Bradshaw is a _bitch_. Aurora once had to give her detention for spreading gossip that her best friend had an STD.

Along with the repeated implications that 'Professor Sinistra and Professor Slughorn are a couple.'

Which is kind of nauseating.

Nathan may be an arsehole, but there's something about him that probably makes all the Seventh Year girls sigh. She says _Seventh Years_ because she doesn't want to face the truth. Aurora _can't_ face the truth.

Three years. There's three years between them. Which doesn't sound that many, but it is. It's pretty much the first rule of teaching: don't fuck your student.

Oh, but how she'd _love_ to break it.

* * *

**Sirius**

_"To let a fool kiss you is stupid, to let a kiss fool you is even worse." - EY Harburg_

_..._

October, 1976, His Seventh Year.

They're both drunk. Oh so very _drunk_. Too drunk to do anything, really. The irony only strikes him later in life, once almost exactly the same thing occurs with Emmeline Vance as it does with Lily Evans that night.

Holing up in the Room of Requirement, with a bottle of Firewhisky to accompany them had been her idea.

"I wonder," she slurs, definitely more than a little tipsy, "if it's fate. _Them_. Falling back together. Again and again and again."

He won't believe that. He can't believe that.

Because the idea that Marlene is set on course for James - only James, kind of makes him want to cry.

Which she's currently doing, right now, muttering some inaudible nonsense under her breath.

'_Bloody tosser.' 'Stupid bitch.' 'They make me sick.'_

Right now, Sirius can't help but agree. The _perfect_ couple. His ex-girlfriend and best friend. Merlin, he never thought he would be on the same page as Evans, but here they are, practically sobbing into each other's arms.

Except he's not. He's too strong to cry. Marlene McKinnon won't break him, she did that years ago, when she broke up with him. When she told him she liked somebody else.

When he discovered exactly who 'somebody else' was by catching James with his tongue down her throat.

He shouldn't pity himself. Lily deserves his sympathy. Lily at least had a chance at love - probably still does, if Prongs comes to his senses and recognises that she fucking fancies him.

Love, to him, used to be an alien concept. Then he collided (there isn't another term for it, not really) with Marlene. Nowadays all that seems to be familiar to him is heartbreak.

That's his fate. That's his '_again and again and again._' To be the cynical, heartless bastard who doesn't know romance until it slaps him in the face. Then abandons him for his best mate, apparently.

He could blame her. Use his power in the school (because the Marauders happen to be pretty influential) to label her a lying, cheating slut. They would prefer James' opinion though. They always do.

When he kisses Evans, she tastes of alcohol and salt, (that'll be the tears, he thinks to himself) and _fuck_, he can see why Prongs likes her now. Not that he does. Which is why he breaks it off, because, _damn_, Potter is going to _kill_ him.

"Oh Sirius," she rests her head against his shoulder, in a somehow-platonic manner. "D'you suppose, in a world without Marlene and James, we would be together?"

His laugh is bitter then, raw and absent of hope. "If only things were that simple, Lils."

"I love him," she confesses. Whether to him, or to the air, he isn't sure. "I _love_ him. Is that terribly stupid of me?"

"Yes," he tells her, because it's quite true, of the both of them. "Yeah, it is."

"We don't deserve them, Black, you know that?

And that's when he cries, because he knows that more than anything in the world.

* * *

**Caradoc**

_"I have had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn't it." - Groucho Marx_

...

Early Spring 1978

"I hate you."

Dorcas doesn't mean it, of course - it's said with a smile of both protest and amusement, along with the little (admittedly adorable) nose wiggle that means he's definitely okay.

"Why?" The innocence tactic - the one Caradoc has used ever since he was four and wiped a chocolate cookie off of the kitchen counter. Never works, but it's still fun to play with. "What could possibly make you want to hate me?"

"You _know_!" Merlin, he loves winding her up. It manages to be hilarious and endearing at the same time. "Trying to set me up with Henry Corn!"

"What was wrong with him?" Oh, this is _absolutely_ turning out to be one of the greatest things he's ever done.

"First of all, who the hell has the last name _Corn_?"

"Henry." A thought occurs to him. "Hey, you know what would have been funny? If his parents had named him 'sweet.' That way, he would have been called '_Sweet-corn_!'"

All he receives in response is a glare.

"He was totally rolling in it," he points out to her. The metaphorical it, being, of course, money. "Plus, a lot of women think he's attractive."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise that being good-looking and an arsehole were mutually exclusive."

Caradoc tosses out a smirk - because he just knows that will push her over the edge - and in his most fake-apologetic voice, says sorry.

"Don't do the puppy eyes," she pleads, appearing to be growing calmer now. "They just make you look stupid."

Or not.

"What's wrong with me staying single, anyway? Why does my life have to revolve around my romantic status?" Such a typically her statement it makes him want to laugh.

"Come on." His tone is light and teasing, the two words that could sum up Caradoc Dearborn entirely. "Don't you want to go on double dates with Hestia and I?"

"I'd rather not." Dorcas snorts, twiddling her thumbs together and refusing to meet his eye. Which equals one possible solution:

"You don't like Hestia?" He's offended, but perhaps less than he should be. Is that right? He supposes that he is a fairly laid-back person, but shrugs it off.

"I didn't say that." Oh, she's never been a particularly _good_ liar. "Fine. I don't _hate_ her."

"Why?"

"Well, I reserve that emotion for people who have wronged me."

For a minute, he's kind-of confused, before he realises. Hate. Right. "No, I mean why don't you like her?"

"You know me. I'm not exactly a _friendly_ person," she pauses for a second and there is a sharp intake of breath. "I'm too cynical to enjoy her happy little soul I guess."

"Dork - " he knows she loathes (secretly loves) that nickname, which is why he's constantly using it. "Come here." Caradoc wraps her into a bear-hug, her small-ish (well, medium, but tiny compared to his) frame being supported by his large one. "You're my little ray of sunshine."

My little ray of sunshine.

My little ray.

_My_.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter or The Kinks.

A/N: Thanks to jg2000 for your review! Does this count for Liar Liar? It's just I wrote that scene a couple days before I got that review, so it was kind of a coincedence.

Other reviews (or favourites/follows) are always welcomed, with any type of feedback being great! I hope you enjoyed!


	3. Present 2

**Regulus**

_I woke up this morning with a grudge the size of a short story, oh..._

_..._

"Vance," Regulus raises an eyebrow in a mixture of sarcasm and surprise, that (if he does so say so himself) only _him_ could pull off. "You again?" Subtlety has never been his strong point. Neither has tact.

"Is this your regular smoking spot?"

"Why, are you following me?" Oh, he's clever when it comes to the comebacks. Sarcastic and witty, that's him, but when it comes to the actual fight - he'll run straight to the hand that feeds him and stay there, too scared to leave. "Is one Black not enough for you?"

She raises her hand to slap him, yet relents at the last minute. Interesting. It seems some of that cowardice in his blood is seeping into hers as well. As a Gryffindor (same year as the mighty, noble Sirius, in fact) she should know better.

Then again, who is he to judge?

She murmurs something about him being 'insufferable,' a word usually reserved for his brother and that bratty friend of his. "I hate you."

"Go ahead," Regulus lets out a small chuckle, "you wouldn't be the first. Or the last, I suspect."

"You're very bitter, aren't you?"

"Have I told you recently how _great_ at observations you are?"

"We met _yesterday_." Not true, in fact, they had met a long time ago, in passing through the corridors and snippets of overheard conversations that were of little relevance and importance, but he fails to mention this to her. "And yes, you did tell me that then."

"Who remembers yesterday?" It's the sort of sentence that could be in a poem, if he could be bothered to pick up his quill and write. _If_ his parents supported it. "Live in the present, Vance."

"Is that the cheesiest thing anybody has ever said?"

"I think some of my brother's pick up lines are worse." He recalls a particular 'you can ride _my_ broomstick' Sirius had used on some Hufflepuff (only one step above dating a Mudblood) once. She had been too caught up in her laughter to respond.

"I know." A faint smile graces her face. "He is rather terrible, isn't he?"

"I haven't spoken to him since he left our family." Ah yes, the Dreadful Row. The one nobody talks of. He presumes she knows about it, by the way she bites her bottom lip.

"Do you miss him?" It's an awfully difficult question to answer - almost the Dreadful Row all over again, a choice between Sirius and the rest of his family. That horrible decision he is constantly forced to make in his life. Except it isn't a decision, not really. He has to choose the latter, or they'll kill him, he knows it.

"No," Regulus says, drawing out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket carelessly, "no, I don't."

He's a terrible liar.

* * *

**Dorcas**

_I feel so, I feel so low..._

_..._

How the fuck is she going to tell Caradoc?

Not face to face, that's for sure. Oh, if the Sorting Hat could see her now, it would _never_ regret choosing Ravenclaw over Gryffindor, because sure, she can kick a man's arse in battle without flinching, but when it comes to admitting she's pregnant to the soon-to-be-father...well, she's Judas-level cowardly.

Hestia. Merlin, she can't do that to Hestia. That'd be like...kicking a puppy in the heart, or something equally morally reprehensible. Even _she_ admits that Jones doesn't deserve that, _Dorcas_ - who currently likes to label herself as the 'antichrist.'

Meanwhile, Jones is the angel fell from Heaven, (Dorcas is being around 75% sarcastic when she comes up with this) whose boyfriend knocked up the spawn of satan without her knowledge.

Dorcas isn't religious in the slightest, it's just her super-uptight muggle father drilling all of it into her brain. Oh _shit_, what is _he_ going to say when she tells him? There's probably some passage in the Bible somewhere stating that all unmarried women who have sex are going straight down to Hell.

Not that she hasn't before (several times, with men of varying looks and skill in the department) but this time, there is definite _proof_.

She takes a look at herself in the full-length mirror that hangs in her apartment, sucking in a breath as she works out how large her stomach will grow. Huge. Pretty goddamn huge. Dorcas has never been particularly _thin_, no matter how many of those Teen Witch (she'd never admit to reading it though) diets she's tried and failed at, but now...

Yeah, it's going to be _kind of_ obvious.

She'll have to take time off from the Order as well. Leave altogether, maybe, once the baby is born. Abandon them all, while Caradoc gets to play the hero and stay.

Maybe she shouldn't tell him at all. Let him carry on with his happy little life, remain in that blissful bubble with Hestia. Believe that she slept with some guy around the same time as him. That's who they all think she is, anyway.

Dorcas Meadowes: the whore. The slut. Even-worse-than-Emmeline (she isn't of course, not that she sees anything wrong with it). They'll never call out Sirius Black on his misdemeanours, because he is a _man_. Currently, they're content with labelling her all of those nasty things that she pretends doesn't affect her.

'They' doesn't mean the Order. No, they generally respect her - they know the rule by now: don't fuck with Meadowes if you don't want your arse kicked, but the rest of the world. Back at Hogwarts. She doesn't know how she was getting all of that imaginary 'action' back then, considering nobody said 'hi' to her in the corridor, let alone took her to bed.

Oh, if they judged her before, they're going to rip her to shreds _now_.

* * *

**Benjy**

_Let me start at the end, the part I haven't figured out yet_...

...

He's _here_.

Which brings to mind the terribly cliche question: is nowhere safe?

Never date a Ravenclaw, he was told by his brother. Who, Benjy presumes, was talking about girls at the time, unless he really _was_ a transparent closet._ Never date a Ravenclaw. It's like dating a Slytherin, except Slytherins are demons_ _in bed, which makes up for their._..(a frustrated wave of the hand)

Occasionally, he wonders of his brother's sources.

_Ravenclaws are perfect. Ravenclaws strive for perfection. If you aren't it, little brother, then you aren't anything at all. _

Easy enough for _him_ to say.

In Benjy's case, it doesn't really work. It's not dating a Ravenclaw, it's _wanting to_ _fuck _a Ravenclaw. A Ravenclaw who will _never_ be interested in him. Ever. Straight, probably, knowing his luck.

Doesn't mean Benjy didn't stare at him for pretty much the whole of Charms last year.

Hugh Johnson is quietly handsome. As in, not one of those muscly Quidditch types (Benjy remembers the fuss made over Black and Potter in _their_ seventh year) but...like a _masterpiece_ from up close. _Damn_, he has bad metaphors. That's the general concept though.

Because when you spend four hours a week sitting next to someone, you begin to...appreciate certain aspects. Or, you know, shiver whenever any body part of theirs brushes past you.

And, god, that shrill announcement of 'partner' work was the only thing he found himself looking forward to back then.

All those little fantasies while Flitwick was droning on about wandwork...he hopes nobody he knows is a Leglimens, because if they are, he's truly, _truly_ fucked.

Besides, even if Hugh were gay (nothing in his life turns out like that, though) he wouldn't be interested. It's practically stamped across Benjy's forehead: '_unlovable loser_.'

It's been told to him before, along with 'go die' - told so many times he's started to believe that it's true. He's a fat pig. He's unattractive. That isn't going to change. Despite all of those little tales he used to tell himself - that one day, Hugh was going to realise that they were _destined for ever after_ - he won't achieve any of that bullshit.

True love only works out for heterosexual, popular, skinny white blondes - and he's the opposite of that, really.

Drowning his sorrows works. _Definitely_ works. Firewhisky is his new best friend and the great thing about The Squeaky House Elf is that people leave him alone. Strangers that he's likely never going to see again, therefore he cannot be worried about them judging him.

At least, until Hugh Johnson walks through the door.

* * *

**Reginald**

_Yes I am, I'm moving slow..._

...

"You're an idiot." The words haunt him, even now, even after he's left that _shithole_, all on his own outside his apartment, counting the bricks in the building opposite. "You're a goddamn little moron and you _deserve_ it."

He traces the cigarette burn on his shoulder lightly with his finger. Recent, but not very, old enough to be fading. Reg can't remember what he did wrong. Probably gave a customer the wrong change or something, that seemed to be his father's favourite excuse.

If Reg even dared suggest that Honeydukes was more popular than Cattermole's Sweets - _Merlin_, he only ever did _that_ once. Probably the worst was the combination of magic and fists, an alternating mixture of both of them. That happened whenever he had done something _particularly_ bad.

Graduation (which had been two and a half or so weeks ago now) had been the best day of his life.

Summer knows. Summer always knows. His best friend has a vaguely-annoying habit of figuring out secrets, so it hadn't taken her long to work out that his bruises weren't from tripping down the stairs, or whatever his lie was that particular day.

Every time, she had promised. Dabbing at the blood on his arm, she had told him that as soon as they left Hogwarts, they would live together. Somewhere far away from where his father can hurt him.

The apartment is small. Run-down, but the best avaliable on their budget. It's a little weird living with his best friend, especially when she brings girls home. At which point he leaves for the night.

Doesn't go anywhere in particular, because he doesn't have any money, but...wanders. He tends not to think when he goes. Thinking hurts. Thinking is a very, very bad thing to do. Plus, they don't have the money to afford anywhere in particular for he to stay when she is...up to certain activities, so he sits outside, mostly trying to block out all coherent thought.

The girl is familiar. He would say Hogwarts, but the chance of other wizards in this town is slim, considering it's a very staunchly muggle place to live. Recognisable, but not enough to place a finger on it. Pretty. Definitely pretty, in the most conventional way possible.

Except that she's crying, which is fairly obvious from the handkerchief covering her nose and the slightly-audible sniffling sound.

He hates it when other people cry - it reminds him of that tiny bony boy with fist-shaped bruises and a hole in his heart. That boy he tries incredibly hard to leave behind. Who couldn't stand up for himself, or others, who was afraid to let anyone comfort him.

So Reg does an entirely stupid thing. He picks himself off of the bench and runs after her.

"Are you okay?"

Her face turns to meet his voice.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Shit_.

He remembers her now.

* * *

**Frank**

_You are playing the lead..._

_..._

He's always amazed at how fragile Alice feels in his arms. Almost though she could break, if he tried it. Shatter into pieces, snap, snap, _snap_. Be pulled apart limb by limb and the very thought makes him shudder.

Hurting her...would be the worst thing he could ever do. Even if that's what they're programmed to do. As Aurors, as Order members. Murder.

It's a specific part of the guidelines, the one that advises turning a loved one in, if there's cause to. He's always been a stickler for the rules, but that's one he'd ignore, if it came down to it. Alice, or his job. Alice, Alice, Alice, _every single time_.

Carefully, oh-so-very-carefully - as not to damage her in any way (because she is so dreadfully small) he adjusts himself a little, so her head fits more snugly into the crook of his neck.

"Mmmm..." Frank murmurs against her hairline, so soft it's almost a hum. "I wish we could stay here forever."

But that's the thing. They can't. Sometime, they have to leave. Face their lives. Their jobs. The order.

She's being assigned.

Over in France, trying to track down some politician-fellow, missing due to 'suspected Death Eater activity.' Frank has no idea _why_ he would be a target, but they're taking Alice away to figure all that out. Next week, actually.

"How are you?"

It's a terribly confusing question. He can't work it out himself - what particular emotion he feels, just...empty, he supposes. And is she asking because of his father, or because of her own imminent departure?

"Okay."

Okay is good. Okay excuses him from both the 'you shouldn't bottle up your feelings, now tell me the truth' lecture and the in-depth analysis of just _why_ he feels like total shit.

Her hand darts out to play with a lock of his hair, smooth, pale fingers strokjng thorough the black. "I love you."

It's not the first time they've said it, but it feels sort of like the last. Or not. Just...important, somehow. Like they aren't just words, but promises, in their own right.

'_I'll stay with you_.' '_I won't get hurt_.' '_I'll come back, no matter what_.' '_Everything will be alright_.'

He can't ignore the painful suspicion that the last one is a lie, that ever-growing sensation of doubt sneaking into his mind, body and soul. It might be. They might grow old, have children, grandchildren.

Or they could die too-young deaths, labelled 'tragic' for their time, yet ignored by the newspapers, never live to see the war end, simply fade away, as a result of a Death Eater hex, or a raid, or whatever the fuck else is going to kill him at this point.

"I love you too."

* * *

**Caradoc**

_The headache that my actions feed..._

_..._

It's butterflies, but worse. His stomach isn't aflutter with fear, it's being crushed by anxiety and guilt, that constant nagging in the back of his mind that tells him he did an awful, awful thing. _  
_

And he _liked it. _

Probably. Maybe. If he could remember it. He was just as fucking wasted - if not more, than Dorcas - yet certain parts tend to show up at night, in his sleep. He isn't entirely sure if it's what actually happened, or his subconscious inventing a picture for it, but he does know that when he wakes up entangled with Hestia and not Dorcas, it hits him. _  
_

Hard.

Sometimes he wishes it was a nightmare and it could be vanished away with a Pepperup Potion and a distracting activity. That he could forget what he did to his girfriend, to his _friend_. Merlin, Dorcas hates him now. She has a right to, considering.

If anything could destroy her, this might be it. Or he's being vain and this a regular occurrence for her. One-night-stands with friends. Sounds like a board game, or a happy-go-lucky book. '_How to fuck everything up_,' by Caradoc Dearborn.

This is the worst thing he's ever done. Seriously. He tries to be a good person, he really, really does, he's tried all his life, but now...

Nobody could claim that. Actually, they could, because he can count those that know on two fingers and those that _don't_ want to keep it a massive secret on none.

It has to come out eventually, he knows that. Just preferably when he's eighty, on his deathbed. _If_ he's still dating Hestia then, because shit _happens_, as evident by his betrayal of epic proportions.

With the influence of a hell of a lot of firewhisky, of course.

He didn't even think of Dorcas like -

_Fine_, but he wasn't in love with her. He certainly wouldn't have thrown away his relationship with Hestia for her - at least, not sober.

Which is exactly what he's gone and done.

Dorcas had always been his sarcastic, slightly-bitter friend, not that there was much problem to that at all, in fact it was a refreshing change in his usual company, someone he could talk to, someone he had never dreamed of -

...

At least he had never thought those dreams would become reality.

He isn't a playboy, or a cassanova, cheating isn't a regular occurrence for him. It was a one-off mistake, a blip in the system and that's how it's going to stay.

* * *

**Sirius**

_Oh, I've only got myself to blame..._

_..._

He doesn't like to think of her, not much, not at all. Thoughts of Marlene aren't exactly _fun_. Confusing, yes. Sad, definitely.

Sirius is currently in the middle of deciding whether or not to rip up her picture.

One that he had entirely forgotten about, hidden amongst the junk he had taken home after graduation (which he had been putting off for a whole year now) somewhere between the half-empty Bertie Bott's box and his old Charms textbook.

Hair dancing in the light, she turns to face him and gives that small smile - as rare as gold and just as precious. It's too painful to keep - a reminder of lost times, yet he can't quite bring himself to throw it away either. He had chucked that old muggle record after all, the strange man singing about Mars, the one she had bought for him so damn long ago.

He'd never listened to it.

But Sirius still remembers the tune, even some of the lyrics, because that chant, that fucking chant of "sailors, fighting in the dance halls," will probably be his last thought. He sees it, every two-and-a-half (or so) bottles of firewhiskey, her dancing, singing, laughing, smiling.

With James.

It's so hard to hate his best friend. If he could, he would. He can't.

Sirius knows that he must move on, away from _Her_, he won't pull a Potter and spend seven years chasing a _girl_ of all things. True love doesn't exist.

Not with Marlene, not with anybody. Even Lily and James will fall apart, someday. Probably when they're eighty, over whose turn it was to put the cat out or some bullshit reason like that.

They won't last. Nothing does. They're all temporary, born to live lonely lives and die lonely deaths, despite that fleeting moment of hope in-between.

His parents didn't sleep in the same bed at night, or talk to each other. Prongs' father had an affair. The Lupins broke after Remus was bitten. Peter...well, apparently his mother scares the living shit out of his father. A very healthy basis for a relationship.

He's seen break-ups and drama follow this 'love' thing around wherever it goes, so often it's become almost as tedious as the theory itself. They're living in a war, for fuck's sake. Doesn't Moody always say not to trust _anybody_? Why should they make exceptions for the people they want to fuck?

That's all it is, anymore. Leading faceless girls into his apartment, barely remembering them the next day. Emmeline doesn't mind. Fuck knows she does it enough with men. Probably for the same reasons as him.

They're both shattered remnants of human beings..._together. _

It kind-of warms the little pieces left of his heart.

* * *

**Mary**

_This is another test I would fail when at my best..._

_..._

"I need a place to stay." It's a long shot. A very, _very_ long shot, considering.

Summer stares down at her in an almost disbelieving manner. "After - "

"I'm sorry." Mary's voice comes out as a squeak, because she _really_ is. She's been sorry ever since she did it. "It was a bitchy thing to do."

"I don't think you understand. _Outing_ _me_ _in front of the whole school_ isn't on the bitchy level. It's on the _you're-the-fucking-antichrist_-level. That's where you went with it. That's how low you sunk."

"Fourth year was a tough year for me." With the whole Mulciber thing, how could it not be? But Summer knows that. Summer was the one who helped her through it. And then she had gone and ruined their friendship.

"Oh yeah? _Me too_!" She's a lot more sarcastic than Mary remembers. Or maybe it's just because Summer hates her. Either way works.

"I didn't - "

"What? Mean it? You never _mean_ anything, Mary."

The worst part is, she had, at the time. She had meant it to sting, to pierce, to destroy. To crush Summer the way she herself had been crushed. And in those few seconds, everything had changed.

"I'm sleeping on the streets." It's like there's something in her throat - a lump, or spit or _something_ - that makes it harder for her to talk. "I have nowhere else to go."

"I'm always the last option, aren't I?" She sounds bitter. She has every right to be. "I have a roommate."

"Reg?" Ah, yes. The replacement-best-friend. She should have known.

"Yeah."

"Where is he?" If he's away, maybe she could -

"Off chasing some girl." He always was a dreamer. "There isn't much space and you'll have to crash on the couch."

By this point, a couch is like a king-sized bed to Mary. As long as she has food and a roof over her head, it's pretty-much a five-star hotel. Even if it is shared with _certain people_.

"Don't piss him off."

Mary was unaware that one _could_. He's the shyest, most soft-spoken person she's ever encountered, probably not far off Hestia-Jones-_nice. _She'd probably have to punch him in the face to spark any sort of temper out of him and maybe not even then. "I'll be good as gold."

"This is temporary. Very, very temporary. And it doesn't mean I fucking forgive you, because that's never going to happen. As soon as you put a foot out of line, you're out of this flat before you can say 'unemployed wreck.'"_  
_

"I understand."

"You'd better," she points to the bag in Mary's hand. "Go unpack."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me. All of this means that I'm one step closer to getting into Wizard Heaven."

* * *

**Emmeline**

_Oh, always ending the same_...

...

"The Knight Bus should have come by now," he points out dryly. "You aren't pointing out your wand."

She blinks and turns to look at him. "I'm not catching it."

"Then why are you crowding up my space?" It's slightly harsh, he admits, but it's a cruel world, full of cruel people. "Go do whatever you Gryffindors do. Party. Play mind-games. Drink, drink, _drink_."

Well, it isn't exactly a _lie, _she reasons with herself. They are practically her favourite things to do. "I'm waiting for someone."

"I would ask _who,_ but I don't really care." If his comments could sting her, that one would.

"Remus Lupin," she swipes a strand of hair from her face and rubs her hands together for warmth. "You know him?"

"Vaguely." His lip curls. "As I seem to remember, he was on good terms with my brother."

"Yeah." Emmeline allows a smile.

"You fancy him or something?"

No. At least, not quite. She _did_ back in first year, but that was a long time ago. "We're - "

Fuck. She's about to say 'partners in the Order' before she realises who she's talking to. A Death Eater. She's talking to a Death Eater. Fraternising with the enemy, something Moody would kill her for.

Emmeline reflects on her choices.

"Friends," she amends quickly, shuffling her feet a little. "Just that."

"Whatever." Regulus moves slightly, inching away from her. "You don't need to explain your love life to me."

"Oh, I could. In great detail."

"And I would be bored to death to hear of it."

"It's rather interesting, actually," she stamps her foot to get rid of the cold. "Did you know Bertram Aubrey is fucking his secretary?"

"And you would know this because - "

A wink. Or, an attempt at a wink, because she really _can't_ do one.

"You slept with the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic?" He sounds more impressed than disgusted. It's not like she's ashamed or anything. She's not the one happily married.

"Shhh?" Emmeline asks, bringing a finger to her lips. Doesn't want to ruin Aubrey's reputation after all. Even if he is a gold-digging muggleborn-hating bastard. "Don't tell."

"This could destroy him."

"He's on your side." The Dark Side. The Bad Side. The side she's not supposed to go near, but finds herself talking to the messy-haired, sarcastic man in the middle of the street anyway.

"Vance, I don't have a side," he lets out an almost-sigh, for an almost-human. "It's not all black and white in this world. You have to know that."

"Why are you...?" Emmeline gestures to his arm for an explanation. "If you aren't - "

"Because I'm weak." He breathes in, out, in, out, like hyperventilation, but somehow not. It's a tetchy subject, she realises, maybe one she shouldn't have brought up. "Because I'm weak and Sirius isn't."

There is a shout from across the street - and she knows it before she sees it, the lifting of a wand in the air, a figure cloaked in black -

And the first curse is fired.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, You Me At Six, or David Bowie

A/N: Thanks to jg2000 for the review, I'm glad you liked the Lily/Sirius, it was kinda weird writing it, but fun! Yeah, Marlene doesn't exactly have _fun_ in this fic...as for the sad/funny thing, I think it's because I have a very dark sense of humour.

As always, reviews are welcome!


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